


Too Much Hope Of Thee

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-22
Updated: 2012-08-22
Packaged: 2017-11-12 16:36:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing moment from AGOT.</p>
<p>"He must be burned. It is the Dothraki way."</p>
<p>"No Dothraki will touch him. It will have to be you."</p>
<p>Jorah Mormont mourns the Khal of Khals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Much Hope Of Thee

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the heartachingly sad poem 'On My First Sonne' by Ben Jonson

For hours he sat outside the tent, and for hours he listened to her screams. As night fell the little company who had sat with him drifted away, unable to listen anymore. Ser Jorah didn’t want to listen, but he stayed, and every scream of agony tore at something inside of him. He’d sworn to protect her, forsaken her brother to protect her, and now he was helpless. Jorah had always been aware that, being a man, there were certain mysteries that he was not ever going to be privy to, but never before had he felt it so acutely. He had felt powerless before…but he had never felt weak. 

Then, suddenly almost, there was a silence that seemed to creep under the flap of the tent and seep into him, and Jorah wished that she would scream again so he could only know she was alive. His sole companion, Jhogo, snatched at his arm as he stood.

“You cannot go in,” the young man whispered, eyes wide, “Is bad luck. It is known.”

“I’m only walking, my friend,” Jorah replied, gently shaking off the hand and beginning a circuit of the tent. He paced, backwards and forwards, lulling the watching Jhogo to an uneasy sleep with his movements, and then there was a cry from inside the tent that roused them both. The piercing wail became a chorus, and Irri rushed from the tent and into the darkness. Jhogo leapt to his feet and followed her, and Jorah hung back outside the tent, desperate to enter but knowing how upset his princess would be if he broke Dothraki custom.

The women did not torture him for much longer. The witch came to the door and beckoned him in. 

“See,” she said bitterly, “See what your khaleesi bargained for.”

The tent was a mess of blood and rags and bottles, smelling like a battlefield after a slaughter. Khal Drogo lay in one corner besides his dead horse, drenched in the faithful creature’s blood. Daenerys lay on a bed, unconscious, unmoving and as pale as he remembered the snow on Bear Island. Jorah moved to her side and touched her hand. She was warm, living at least, but lost to the world. Then, and only then, did Jorah realise he could hear no cries of an infant. 

The other women were gathered around a table upon which lay a blanket wrapped bundle. They moved aside as Jorah approached, clutching at one another and sniffling. With a sickening dread in his guts that felt as though his bowels had turned to water, he pulled aside the corner of the blanket, and had to stop himself from recoiling in horror.

The child was monstrous. His tiny face was covered with pale scales that obscured almost anything that made him human. A shock of dark, thin hair on his head was the only thing that Jorah could see he had inherited from his father, whilst the unseeing violet eyes belonged only to Daenerys. Unable to bear looking at them, Jorah reached down with a delicate touch and closed the scaly lids. The skin shifted beneath his fingers and he pulled his hand away as though he had been burned. Trembling slightly, he began to unwrap the blanket, but the witch stopped him.

“There is little to see that has not already crumbled, Jorah the Andal. The boy did not live. He never lived.”

Jerking away from the witch he went back to Daenerys and knelt at her side.

“Does she-”

“The khaleesi does not yet know. She will sleep for two days with the potions I have given her.”

“The boy. She must not see him. It will break her heart to see him,” Jorah’s voice cracked as he pulled himself to his feet, “He must be burned. It is the Dothraki way.”

“They will not touch him,” the witch said, gesturing to the Dothraki women, “No Dothraki will. He is bad luck. It will have to be you.”

As if to prove her point, the women turned wild, pleading eyes to Jorah as they pulled away from the body and ran from the tent.

Sparing a last glance to his khaleesi, Jorah gathered the tiny bundle in his arms. It was no heavier than if he had only been carrying the blanket and he held it awkwardly. Unlike some men he had the misfortune of being acquainted with he knew how to be gentle, but he’d never had to be this careful before. He’d never held something quite so precious.

He left the tent, pausing only to pick up in his spare hand a bundle of firewood. Far outside of the camp, on the edge of the cliff, he set the baby down and built a crude pyre. It was not what any child deserved – and especially not what a prince deserved - but he could do no more. The boy was missing a lot of things – mourners, possessions to take to the Night Lands, his parents to say goodbye. All he had was the blanket he was hidden in and his mother’s faithful servant to watch over him. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair. As he placed the body on the pyre, a tear fell from his eye and on to the boy’s forehead. Hesitantly, he bent down and pressed his lips to the child’s brow.

“Rhaego,” Jorah whispered, “She loved you so much. She would have loved you even more if she had the chance. Don’t blame her. It’s not her fault.”

Then, with shaking hands and bile rising in his throat, Jorah lit the pyre. It didn’t take long to burn, it was such a small thing, and he did his best to chant the Dothraki words for the dead. When all that was left was ash, he glanced up at the burning embers making their escape on the breeze, and saw the stars above them. He knew he would never quite look at those stars in the same way again.

“Goodbye, Rhaego. I promise I will protect her for you. Watch over her and she will come for you one day. Ride well, my sweet prince.”


End file.
